Angel - Germany x Reader One Shot
by anons of the world
Summary: On Halloween night, the people that are "too grown-up" to go trick-or-treating for candy are headed to a masquerade ball, which is just an excuse to dress up and eat candy. You are going to the same place as everyone else, but little do you know, you'll meet an angel.


The night was dark, blacker than you had ever seen before. Stones glowed eerily bright under the moonlight, when it came out from behind the clouds. A breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees over your head, and you shivered.

Tonight was Halloween, and the spooky, mysterious weather seemed fitting. All Hallows' Eve, the holiday dedicated to the dead.

Children ran about, dressed up in all sorts of costumes. There were ghosts, witches, characters from movies, superheroes, almost anything the imaginative human mind could think of. These 'creatures' traveled from house to house, begging for candy. And if one asked, they would be given. Showers of chocolates, candies, and even the inedible glowsticks cascaded out of the hands of the smiling adults into the bags carried by the children.

Now; trick-or-treating was only for children. But what about the hungry teenagers and young adults, who wouldn't embarrass themselves by pleading for candy, yet yearned for the sweets? Some genius thought of a 'masquerade ball', where one had an excuse to dress up like children, wear a mask, and get free food.

And that was where you were headed. You didn't have a car yet, and so you decided to walk to the house where the ball was being held. It wasn't really far, if you cut across the cemetery, and, no matter how creepy it was, it wouldn't hurt. After all, the dead were dead, and there were no such things as ghosts.

You made your way between the tombstones, occasionally reading the words etched eternally into the markers under the light of the moon.

'Helena Browne, 1935-1984'

'Josephine McKlein, 1883-1954'

'Markus Worston, 1939-1958'

You winced at the last one. He had almost been your age. You lifted your head, determined not to look down and glance at the engravings anymore.

The shadows were playing tricks on your eyes. You could've sworn you saw something appear, then disappear. A rustling sound came from behind you, and you whipped around. Nothing.

You were already tensed, and stumbled into a jog. Even if everything was just your imagination, you just wanted to get out of the graveyard, as soon as possible. The clouds swamped the sky, blocking out the light, and once again, you were in darkness. The lights from the houses seemed so far off, and you could no longer remember which way you were supposed to go. The houses from every side of the cemetary seemed the same; were you going towards this one, or that one? So you just continued to run forward, unsure if you were veering slightly off track or not.

Where was the gate? Shouldn't you have reached it by now? The graveyard seemed to be an infinitely long expanse of land, and even though you had been running for a while now, it seemed like you would never reach the other side.

Suddenly you crashed into something. It was almost as cold as marble, but it didn't feel like stone. More like a fabric, made of some soft, silky material.

"W-Who's there?" You managed to say, your breathing heavy from running as well as fear. Was it even a person?

There was silence for a few moments, and you felt a small twinge of dread. It was almost a foreshadowing, like something bad was soon to come. You itched to run away, and had finally began to step back when something clicked on. A flashlight.

Light poured into the cemetery, flooding you and the nearby tombstones. But you still couldn't see the person holding the flashlight. Your eyes ached; the light left you unable to see as much as the dark did, and you had to squeeze shut your eyelids and look away for a few long moments.

When you felt like your eyes had adjusted, you turned to the person. Apparently he had seen how his flashlight, which had been pointed directly at you, had affected you, and wisely turned it down towards the ground.

At that moment, the silvery slice of moon chose to peek out from behind its cushion of clouds, as if taunting you. The moment you didn't need it, it came out.

But at least it illuminated the person. He was tall, with broad shoulders. A robe-like outfit flowed smoothly from those shoulders, over the body which looked heavily muscled under the thin material and to his feet, which were laced into sandals. Wings extended from his back, large and magnificent. They caught the light in such a way that made them look real, not just cheap ones made of fake features and plastic. A halo was attached to his head with a thin piece of wire. His golden locks and sky blue eyes made him look perfectly like the angel he was dressed up to be. A guardian angel, who had found you when you were lost and afraid. An angel, who was none other than Ludwig Beilschmidt.

His face, which previously held no expression other than an annoyed one, turned a pale red that could barely be seen in the moonlight. But he didn't appear to be blushing because he noticed that you were studying his costume - no, his blue eyes were focused only on you.

It was your turn to blush. Your costume was the exact opposite of his: a demon. You had dyed your hair black and curled it to go with the outfit, which consisted of a black minidress with blood red designs you had sewed into it by hand. Tall, black boots covered your calves and left parts of your thighs exposed. Just because you were bored, you were wearing a headband with cat ears on them. You had been rather pleased with the outcome when you were at home, a neko-devil, standing in front of the mirror, but being here, with a man whose eyes were drinking in how the dress hugged your figure, you felt awkward. Perhaps you should've chose something most modest?

His eyes ran over you once again, from the black mask down to your long legs. He cleared his throat, as if trying to distract himself from something, and coughed again. "Ah. Miss [Y/N]? Is that you?" A strong German accent twisted the words to make them sound foreign, almost exotic.

You smiled shyly, lowering your head to stare down at the grass. "Yeah." Looking up at him again, you noted for a second time how he looked. Like an angel, descended from heaven.

"You look nice." The words had left your lips before you could stop yourself, but you convinced yourself that it was polite conversation. If somebody dressed up, you compliment them. That didn't mean that you liked them, right?

He seemed startled, at a loss of what to say. Clearly, he didn't have very good social skills. But it was rather cute, how his flush, at first lightly sprinkled across his cheeks, grew darker. "And, uh, you look nice too. Beautiful."

You almost wanted to laugh. The Ludwig Beilschmidt you knew didn't go around telling girls they looked 'beautiful'. Had he read this in a book, that explained how to communicate with women? But your laughter bubbled away when you saw the intensity in his eyes, the honesty. Did he actually mean it?

The German man looked away quickly when he realized that you were trying to read his feelings. He pointed stiffly to the gate. "The party's that way. So is the exit."

You nodded, murmuring a quiet 'thank you'. But when you stepped forward and realized he wasn't following, you gently took his arm, pretending not to notice when his face turned even more red. He had no choice, though you knew he wasn't really trying to fight against you or anything, but to follow.

You lead him towards the cemetery gate, and finally you saw where the masquerade ball was; the house across the street. It was strange, when you were standing in the middle of the graveyard, how you couldn't distinguish a house's lights from another. Now the sky seemed so clear, the clouds that had been hanging around the moon gone. That was strange; it was as if the moon only began to shine when you had left the graveyard, or rather, when you had found Ludwig. You smiled, though uneasily, and the "angel" beside you seemed to notice.

"Are you alright, frau?" Ludwig asked, partially in his native language. His eyes seemed to pierce yours when you raised your head to look at him, and you felt almost like you could trust him, like you could tell him anything. But all you managed to do was shake your head, your [e/c] eyes never once leaving his.

He didn't look like he believed you, but just nodded. You two stared at each other in a not-really-uncomfortable silence for a few moments, until he did something totally out of character, something you had never seen him do before. His hand, which had previously been left hanging by his side, came up to rest on the top of your head. His palm petted your [h/c] ringlets, careful not to move the cat headband.

You froze when his large hand came into contact with you, like a deer caught in headlights. You didn't know what to do, but you liked how it felt, his hand, strong and calloused from years of hard work - you believed that he had once had a job making clocks, or something - now stroking strands of hair away from your forehead. His fingers brushed down your cheek, and you let your eyes flutter shut, emitting a sound that was almost like a purr.

"Good kitty," Ludwig chuckled, and you huffed, looking away. "I'm not a cat. Don't treat me like one." You really didn't mind, but you hadn't meant to purr, or whatever you were doing, like that. It was embarrassing, and made you sound like a sex-deprived whore or something.

Ludwig's smile faded, as if he couldn't tell you didn't mean it, and moved his hand away, gruffly muttering, "Well. We should go to the masquerade ball-"

He was cut off when you grabbed his hand. You weren't sure why you had done that. Perhaps you cheek had become cold when he removed his palm, and you instinctively wanted the warmth. Perhaps you didn't want him to have his feelings hurt. Perhaps you were trying to nice, taking his hand in a 'I didn't mean it' gesture.

But deep down, you knew that the reason you were now gripping his hand had nothing to do with any of the excuses you had come up with. You knew you didn't want to let him go. So perhaps the it was more of ... love?

By the time you had finished wondering and coming to conclusions, Ludwig was protesting. "Miss [Y/N]? Ah, could you ... let go of my hand, please?"

You laughed. "Why? It's only hand-holding." He got upset, uncomfortable over the smallest things, but it just made him seem more enticing. Or was he only like this to women? When Italy hugged him, he only grew angry and yelled at him. So was this special treatment he was giving you, by not shouting at you? You leaned closer, grinning. A hand flashed out for a finger to gently run over his lips. "It's not like we were doing anything more ... intimate."

His face burst into shades of red, and you couldn't help but laugh at the startled look on his face. You were bent over, giggling and gasping for breath in between when you felt him touch your shoulder, lightly. His fingers traced up your throat and caught your chin, turning your face to meet his, and you hushed immediately.

Gone was the surprised expression, and in its place was a serious look, that lingered on the border between solemn and dangerous. He lowered his head so that he was breathing by your ear, the quiet words he whispered barely audible. "So you would like something more ... intimate, would you?" His voice was deep, husky, filled with traces of desire.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned his face and captured your lips with his. His hand left your chin and rested itself on the back of your head, gently pushing you up towards him.

You didn't object - couldn't object, as his kiss pushed every other thought out of your mind. You felt yourself melting into him, lips falling open to admit his tongue. You were leaning against his sturdy chest, feeling him explore every part of your mouth, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair - when suddenly a voice from across the street broke you two apart.

Feliciano was standing by the door, holding a bowl of pasta. "Luddy! Come get some pasta!" He seemed quite oblivious that he had ruined the magic of the moment. He didn't seem like he even noticed you as he strolled back inside the house, humming a song so loudly you could hear it across the street.

Ludwig sighed, straightening back up. "Shall we go, then?" He offered his hand to you, and you gladly took it.

A few hours later, a blonde man stood by the wrought iron gates of the cemetery, waving goodbye to a young lady. Before she could turn to go, he pecked her softly on the cheek, then on the mouth. If one were close enough, they might be able to hear the quiet words in a language that wasn't English. "Ich liebe dich."

Perhaps the words were foreign, but it was impossible to miss the meaning, the way the syllables were breathed lovingly into the woman's ears.

But no matter whether she understood or not, the man spoke the statement again, this time, in a language both could understand. It was said like a vow, a promise, a hope for the future. And, of course, the tender words were, "I love you."


End file.
